Fated to Fall for Him
by sleapyGazelle
Summary: Klance Week 2017 Day 1: Free Will vs. Fate. The Garrison Backstory. Lance utilizes his free will to hate his new punk of a rival. But fate has other things in store. Lance's POV.


The Galaxy Garrison warmly welcomes

 _Lance Alvarez_

to the class of 2118

Distinction: Cargo Pilot

* * *

It's the first day of school for the umpteenth time in your life; and for the first time, you're less than thrilled. If even a year ago someone had told you that you'd be going to _The_ Galaxy Garrison but would still have grievances, you would've called them crazy. Yet here you are, finally decked out in orange and white after years of wanting it, reporting for your first day to the desk marked 'Cargo Pilots.' If someone had told you you wouldn't make fighter class because the best pilot in a generation happened to be in your class, you would've laughed in their face. And yet…

You collect your badge and make your way to the barracks, knuckles white around the strap of your bag.

Your stomach coils as you think about your rival, just waltzing in and snatching what you'd spent years working to achieve right out of your hands. With every footfall, your mental image of him distills. He is a jock, you decide, unironically sporting a military buzz cut, walking around with his chest puffed out, knocking little kids' toys out of their hands, and flexing his arms at unsuspecting girls. (You also flex, but at least you're charming about it and get flirty giggles in return.) Your decision to hate him is cemented, and you take comfort in it as you mentally prepare to study the theory and science of flying as a first year. Fighter class or Cargo, your fingers already itch to hold the controls in your hand and set off to explore worlds far and wide.

* * *

"The Physics of Flying." You'd be more interested in the class if it were taught by literally anyone else. Riu is probably close to a hundred years old—or at least 65—and, in this day and age, teaches from a long-yellowed notebook, the pages of which look ready to crumble at a single touch. And yet they hold, apparently friendly only to Riu's fingers.

You occupy a seat in the communal curved lecture desk, upper body draped over it, fidgeting with your click-pen, when a break in Riu's monotonous droning makes you look up.

"How nice of you to join us, Kogane." Riu's dry voice makes the sarcasm even more obvious.

 _Kogane_? You think you must have heard wrong, because _that's him_? How can that be your nemesis? You can't make out everything from your vantage point at the back of the hall; but he's nothing like the punk you'd imagined. He has a lean frame, but something about the way he moves hints at underlying power. The thought has your stomach coiling again, but this time you feel unexpected heat rising to your face. Wow, you must really hate him. Long raven hair frames his face, bangs falling into dark eyes. A blush tints his pale skin as he colors at Riu's words and how they've drawn the whole class's eyes to him, quietly making his way to an empty seat. You bolt upright the rest of the way when you realize said empty seat is a couple of rows ahead of you. Your eyes bore beams through his violet ones as he makes his way up the aisle, but he doesn't look at you. An ugly beast rears its head in your chest. You attribute it to your self-proclaimed rivalry.

'The most gifted pilot in a generation' sits down, pulls out a notebook and pen, and seems to pay attention. Now that you've got a view of the back of his head, you realize he has a mullet. That's even worst than a buzz cut! You get annoyed just looking; and yet you refuse to look away. Your eyes catch the label on his notebook right before he opens it. _Keith Kogane_. You're not sure why, but there's a name you're never going to forget.

When lecture ends, he—Keith—gathers his things and leaves while nearly everyone else starts chattering with the cadets around them. Even as you make friends with the big guy aptly named Hunk beside you, your eyes seek out Keith, out of nothing but spite of course. All you catch is the back of that mullet. An arrogant asshole, then. Figures.

The days pass, turning into weeks. You start seeing Keith practically everywhere. Or maybe you're just more aware of him than before—of his quiet brooding, his intense eyes, his alluring mouth, of the planes of his chest and abs. You shake your head to clear it of this intrusive line of thought. _He's your rival_ , and you hate him. You hate how he stole your thunder, how he always outperforms you on tests by a hair's breadth, how he doesn't even notice you. As sure as you were that he'd be an obnoxious creep, he doesn't once acknowledge, or seemingly even notice, all the attention he gets from girls. You admit to yourself that you're jealous—jealous that he's more popular with the ladies than you are—and indignant on said ladies' behalf that he doesn't even take advantage of it.

When weeks turn into months, it's time for flight simulations. You never miss any of Keith's. You tell yourself it's because you want to observe him for weaknesses, for faults. Sometimes you think it's because fighter simulations are more interesting than your own cargo ones. Whatever the reasons, you always watch closely. You've yet to note any weak points in his performance. But he still a pretentious prick. Iverson even told him once to watch his attitude when he didn't thank the instructor for a compliment. Seeing Keith talked down to didn't give you the pleasure you would've expected, which is strange given how strongly you despise him. And your feelings are definitely strong. You've never felt this strongly toward anyone before; your chest constricts and your breath hitches every time you see him. You want to hate him, you really do—he stole your dream after all—and since you have such visceral reactions to him, you must be succeeding, at least somewhat.

But then there are moments like now, when you see Keith in a light that makes you feel something else—something that feels just like the thing you've named hate, but that doesn't fit into your idea of hatred. Keith is flying the simulator, and it's going poorly. It's not his fault, you note begrudgingly; the mock mission is just extra dangerous. It's a battle against an enemy ship, the cadets' objective merely to make it out alive, with extra points awarded to any team that can take down the enemy battleship. But it's not going well. You watch, unable to tear your gaze from Keith's features—calm as he commands his team and from his hands—steady as he maneuvers the simulator through laser fire. You watch with bated breath as Keith makes an agile path toward the ship's exposed underbelly, clearing the way to fire. He has a clean shot, and your fists are clenched in anticipation, when a panicked voice assaults your ears.

"Keith!"

The back of the ship has taken a hit, rocking the engineer and communications manager. Another shot is impending. You glance up at the stats monitor. _Left engine_ _health critical_. You may be a different distinction but you're a pilot just the same, and your experience tells you Keith can take his shot before the engine gets hit again. But he won't be able to pilot to safety if the shot doesn't take the enemy ship down. It's risky. You figure he'll fire; it's what you would do. And in these months of observing him from afar, if there's one thing you learned it's that he's a hothead. That's why what he does next throws your whole impression of him out of whack. He deflects, swerves, nosedives, and pilots his crew to safety, his chance at glory abandoned. They step out of the simulator and a kid—an actual jock—shouts in disappointment, "You could've had 'em!"

Keith's blank expression barely changes as he responds to his classmate. "My team's lives were more important."

Wow Keith, no one's life was _actually_ in danger, you scoff to yourself. He's so dramatic. But maybe he's not as much of a douchebag as you've been wanting to believe. That's harder to admit because then you'll need an alternate explanation for how you react to his presence—to the very sight of him. Because if it's not hate it's…

You ignore whatever fate might have in store for you. You turn and walk away from the balcony you'd been observing from. You dismiss what you've just seen as another act of posturing, of glory-seeking. Keith's just trying to look like a hero, showing how much he can sacrifice for a crew, even in a simulation. You tell yourself this as you roll the word "rival" around in your mind, testing out the feel of it after your latest feelings-crisis. It sounds perfectly fine and natural, you decide. Or at least it will again soon, if you just keep convincing yourself of it.

* * *

 **A/N:** From here, our story continues in canon. It leads right into the attitude we see from Lance in season 1, and I don't expect he will realize the true nature of his feelings for Keith until a solid 3+ seasons into the show.


End file.
